Page 8 of Caught Up

“Yes,” I ground out. “But I want you wetter.”

She shifted her hips forward, grinding her clit against my palm, fucking herself onto my fingers with total abandon. She was glorious. Wild. Perfect.

“I want to feel you come,” I ordered.

“I’m going to come,” she said, as if she’d heard me. “You’re going to make me come so hard.”

“I’m right there with you,” I told her, my balls starting to tighten.

A heartbeat later, we came together, both of us shuddering, both of us breathing hard. Spots danced across my eyes. Fuck, that was amazing.Shewas amazing.

I watched her slump sideways onto the bed, laughing in a way that made my chest hurt. She sounded so free, sohappy. I would have killed, literally, to feel that alive for once; I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d laughed.

Her gaze met mine through the camera. “Holy shit, that was good. Was it good for you, too?”

I grabbed a wad of paper towels and started mopping myself up. “I think I got some on the ceiling, so, yeah, I’d say it was.”

Again, that infectious laugh. “I’m going to sleep so well tonight.” She stretched on the bed, languorously, her arms high overhead and her toes pointed.

I wanted to crawl on top of her and make her come again. And again. Until she was so exhausted she could barely keep her eyes open. Only then would I let her sleep, and only for a few hours before I woke her for more.

“Hey,” she said, drawing my gaze back up her body. Her expression was open, intimate, her eyes soft with the afterglow of pleasure. “Thank you for doing this with me.”

“Don’t thank me, Lo,” I told her. “Don’t ever thank me.”

I locked my phone and finished cleaning myself off, and as the haze of pleasure dissipated, my mind began to spin. No, I hadn’t figured out how to get free from my father yet, but I needed to find some way to do it. And fast. Because it was time for a new chapter of my life to start.

I was done fucking around on the internet like some weirdo; I needed to see Lauren in person.

4

Junior

Ishouldn’t be here.

That thought hit me like a thunderbolt the second I stepped inside the church. I hadn’t been to Mass in years, and I half expected someone to point at me as I crossed the threshold and declare that my kind wasn’t welcome here.

A glance down revealed that my long sleeves, which were completely inappropriate in this godforsaken heat, hid most of the tattoos on my arms and hands. Likewise, my shirt was buttoned all the way up, covering the ink on my neck. With my dark hair slicked back and my face shaved, I looked respectable enough, but from the way the church greeter’s eyes widened at the sight of me, I wasn’t fooling anyone.

She was a plump grandmother type with short gray hair and a hooked nose. Instead of saying hello, she jerked her head to the right, looking nervous. “Your mom and brother are already inside.”

I gave her a nod and moved past her, my gaze shifting toward the nave as I wondered which of my siblings had tagged along with Mom. This was the largest Catholic church in the city, a huge, ornately decorated gothic monstrosity that would have been more at home in Eastern Europe than middle America. You’d think Saturday Mass would be less crowded than Sunday, but a sea of people was packed into the nave.

Turning left, I headed toward the far aisle, my gaze scanning the crowd. Today wasn’t about being a good little Catholic; it was recon. This was my family’s church, Lauren’s family’s church. I knew for a fact that her Nonna Bianchi still attended Saturday Mass, because Mom was in theevent-planninggroup with her and mentioned her during a recent family dinner. And if Lauren getting all dolled up and heading to her nonna’s apartment early this morning was any indication, they would both be in attendance today.

I swiveled my head, looking for them.

“Junior? Is that you?” came a lilting Irish voice.

Fucksake. Mom had already spotted me. My luck was the goddamn worst. So much for scoping out the crowd.

I pausedmid-stepand turned, plastering on a smile. Mom extracted herself from a group of other women and headed my way. She wore her church mouse best: a demure floral dress, comfortable heels, and a nondescript purse. Her light brown hair was loose to her shoulders, and she’d framed her green eyes with mascara. Looking at her, you’d never know that she’d spent her youth helping her father make bombs in their basement.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, leaning down to hug her. At five ten, I was average height, but I still dwarfed her tiny form.

“It’s so nice of you to come to Mass,” she said, tacking on “for once” because she couldn’t help herself. To her, beingneck-deepin death and destruction was acceptable. Skipping church as often as I did? Unforgivable. But being raised in the IRA during the height of the Troubles could do that to a person, so I tried not to let her comment get to me.

I pulled back, keeping my smile firmly in place. “I wanted to surprise you.”

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